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DAFFODILS 


" Pansies,  and  violets,  and  asphodel" 


A.  D.  T.  W. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

gfc  ff  toerjnte  1&re#,  Camfcrfoge 
1887 


Copyright,  1887, 
BY  ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


Tke  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


fs 


CONTENTS. 


BY  THE   WAY. 

PAGB 

THE  POSTMAN'S  RING 9 

THE  CLOSED  GENTIAN ia 

THE  SUN-SEEKERS 15 

THE  MORNING  MOON 20 

LIFE-COLORS 22 

RAINFALL 25 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  YEAR 27 

SPIKENARD 3! 

FORGETTING  .       .       . 33 

MERIDIAN 36 

THEIR  ANGELS 4I 

SONGS  OF  PRAISES 45 


THE  WITNESS 
KYRIE  ELEISON  . 
FULFILLED     . 
SPRING  IN  THE  CITY 


WITH  THE  CHILDREN. 


LITTLE  MAID  BERTHA'S  STORK 59 

THE  CHRIST-CHILD  AND  THE  CHILDREN       ...  68 

HYMN  FOR  CHILDREN'S  MISSION 71 

FEBRUARY 73 

762975 


iv  CONTENTS. 

GRANDMAMMA'S  VALENTINE 74 

THE  DEACON'S  LITTLE  MAID 76 

MIDSUMMER  WORDS 85 

"NlGH  AND   BY" 87 

THE  DEAR  LOST  THING 89 

ESPECIAL. 

SILVER  WEDDING 95 

GOLDEN  TIMES 97 

OUR  HOME-MAKER 101 

H.  B.  S 104 

LIFTED  UP no 

HENRY  W.  BELLOWS 113 

OUR  MOTHER 117 

ANSWER  TO  A  FRIENDLY  VERSE 120 

A  GOOD-BYE 122 

THE  Two  POWERS 124 

THE  GREAT  PYRAMID 127 

FOR  A  CHURCH  DEDICATION 132 


TO    THE    WAYFARER. 

Straight  to  tie  sbining  leaven  the  daffodil 

Her  cup  doth  bold; 
Asking  and  gathering  the  sweet  light  until 

It  brims  with  gold. 
Then,  though  the  under-skies  be  dun  and  gray, 

Earth  cold  and  crass, 
With  changeless  mien  she  sits  there  brave  and  gay 

In  the  meek  grass, 
Showing  her  trophy  of  a  fairer  day 

To  all  that  pass. 

If  any  little  reaching  upward  so, 

Above  life's  ills, 
Have  found  the  o'er-brooding  summer,  whose  great  glon 

To  gladness  fills 
Heart-blooms  for  me,  — partake  them  as  you  go, 

My  daffodils. 


THE   POSTMAN'S   RING. 

|F  all  the  parables,  day  by  day, 

That  thrill   the   heart  of  this   life   of 

mine,  — 

Making  strange  and  beautiful  sign 
Of  gracious  meaning  in  common  way,  — 
The  very  blithest  and  dearest  thing 
Is  the  sound  in  the  house  of  the  postman's  ring. 

It  tells  a  story.     Though  deep  and  far 
Stretch  the  want  and  the  wish  of  man, 
Hid  in  the  bud  of  an  infinite  plan 
All  blessed  and  sure  providings  are. 
God's  love  rings  the  bell  at  the  door 
That  the  postman  stands  and  waits  before. 


10  THE  POSTMAN'S   RING. 

For  He  knew  when  He  made  it,  —  earth  and 

sea,— 

The  world  so  wide,  and  his  child  so  small, 
Something  must  reach  across  it  all 
From  heart  to  heart  that  would  listening  be  ; 
And  so,  from  the  first,  He  laid  away 
Seed  of  purpose,  that  fruits  to-day. 

And  because  no  service  of  man  to  man, 
No  thought  or  method  that  matches  need, 
With  outward  emblem  can  half-way  read 
The  depth  divine  of  the  heavenly  plan, 
Almost  the  dearest  and  hopefullest  thing 
In  the  livelong  day  is  the  postman's  ring. 

It  minds  me  well  if  so  sure  a  hand, 
So  glad  a  summons,  may  tell  and  send 
Our  earthly  tidings  from  friend  to  friend, 


THE   POSTMAN'S   RING.     *  II 

There  cannot  be  less  in  the  Perfect  Land. 
Soul  messages  may  not  be  stayed  nor  crossed  : 
Out  of  God's  mails  no  letter  is  lost ! 

Dear  heart,  that  dwell est  I  know  not  where,  — 
So  near  —  so  distant  —  I  may  not  see,  — 
While   I    sit    below  with  my  thoughts  of 

thee, 

Is  some  such  usage  of  gladness  there  ? 
Do  the  angels  come  to  thy  door  and  say, 
"  We  have   brought   thee   a  word   from  her  to- 
day "  ? 


THE  CLOSED   GENTIAN. 

I  CLIMBED  one  day  upon  a  great  high  shelf, 
Where  God  rare  things  doth  hide, 

And  found  a  poem  that  had  writ  itself 
Against  the  mountain  side. 

A  plant  whose   green   spires  something  barely 
grew 

Held  at  its  short,  brave  tips 
Full-clustered  flowers  of  vivid  purple-blue, 

Yet  bud-like,  with  shut  lips. 

The  delicate  corollas  swelled  unsheathed 
From  calyx-cradles  Small, 


THE  CLOSED  GENTIAN.  13 

In    tender    bells,    with    clear-curved    veinings 

wreathed, 
That,  closing,  sealed  them  all. 

I  said,  It  is  the  Gentian.     And  I  sought 

For  an  unfolded  one, 
Just  veiling  with  sweet  fringes  its  heart -thought 

Of  gladness  from  the  sun. 

Vainly.     It  never  opened,  some  one  said ; 

The  strange,  fair  bud  was  all, — 
A  bright  hope  only  half  interpreted, 

And  shriveling  to  its  fall. 

I  would  not  think  it.     Surely  never  so 

The  blessed  types  are  set : 
Still  I  went,  wistful,  searching  to  and  fro, 

The  perfect  word  to  get. 


14  THE  CLOSED  GENTIAN. 

*T  was  there    for    reading.     God's    types    take 

large  room, 

With  answering  tokens  rife: 
Not  far  from  the   Closed   Gentian  shone  white 

bloom 
Of  Everlasting  Life. 


THE   SUN-SEEKERS. 

THE  lark  is  the  bird  of  the  sunrise ; 

But  the  woodcock's  wonderful  flight 
Mounts  up  in  the  edge  of  the  evening 

Through  the  threat  and  shadow  of  night. 

When  the  sun  has  dropped  from  the  hill-top, 
And  the  pastures,  warmed  all  day 

With  the  early  touch  of  the  springtime, 
Are  chilling  quickly  away  ; 

When  the  lingering,  lengthening  outlines 

That  each  open  level  crossed, 
Like  shapes  of  the  mortal  lifetime, 

In  the  wider  dusk  are  lost ; 


1 6  THE   SUN-SEEKERS. 

When  the  purl  of  the  brook  tells  plainer 

Its  story  of  long-shed  tears, 
As  there  runs  in  the  heart  a  ripple 

From  the  tenderness  of  years ; 

In  the  peace  and  pain  of  the  twilight, 
Which  deeper  we  scarce  can  say, 

For  the  sadness  of  things  that  are  parted 
And  the  calm  of  the  things  that  stay,  — 

There  breaks  on  the  hush  that  bird-note, 
That  sudden  and  sweet  unrest, 

The  "  seek,  seek,  seek ! "  of  the  woodcock 
From  beside  his  darkening  nest : 

Merged  in  a  quivering  twitter, 
Like  an  asking  whither  to  go, 

As  he  lifts  his  wings  in  the  dimness, 
And  flies  in  a  circle  slow 


THE   SUN-SEEKERS.  I? 

Just  over  the  tips  of  the  grasses, 
With  a  sweep  that  follows  round 

The  verge  of  his  home  horizon 

On  some  wood-rimmed  upland  ground. 

Like  one  who  carefully  searcheth 
Where  a  lost  thing  left  the  sight, 

About  and  about  he  wheeleth, 
And  looks  for  the  vanished  light : 

Each  turn  of  his  course  still  bending 
To  measure  less  of  the  ground ; 

Winning  a  little  way  upward, 
Nearer  the  heart  of  the  round. 

Passing  the  line  of  the  tree-tops, 

Leaving  the  brim  of  the  hill, 
Building  his  Jacob's  ladder, 

He  closeth  and  climbeth  still ; 


1 8  THE   SUN-SEEKERS. 

Still  with  the  querying  music 

As  of  that  uprising  word, 
Grown  tremulous  with  repeating, 

And  in  broken  echoes  heard, 

Till  the  last,  least,  upmost  winding 
Of  the  spiral  stairway  done, 

At  once  from  the  heart  and  the  highest 
He  crieth,  "I  see  the  sun!" 

And  oh,  what  a  paean  of  triumph 
He  brings  from  that  instant's  poise, 

As  down,  defying  the  darkness, 
He  comes  with  a  joyful  noise! 

Threading  the  selfsame  pathway, 
Missing  no  step  of  the  stair, 

All  the  way  pouring  the  answer 
Just  where  he  rose  with  the  prayer. 


THE  SUN-SEEKERS.  19 

"  I  have  seen,  I  have  seen,  the  glory ! 

It  is  larger  than  east  or  west ; 
And  I  know  it  is  there  above  us, 
Although  it  be  night  in  the  nest ! " 

Ah,  the  lark  hath  the  message  of  morning, 

The  cheer  of  the  day  begun  ; 
But  the  woodcock,  seer  of  the  gloaming, 

Sings,  "  Shining  shall  never  be  done ! " 


THE   MORNING  MOON. 

AN  old  Moon  with  a  waning  breast 

Quietly  lingers  down  the  west, — 

An  old  Moon,  worn  and  faint  and  sad. 

Over  the  east  the  Dawn  climbs,  fresh  and  glad. 

She  walks  straight  on  before  the  Sun: 

Bars  of  amber  and  cinnamon 

Kindle,  and  fuse,  and  separate ; 

Then  up  the  King  rides,  through  the  flamy  gate. 

The  old  Moon  smiles  above  the  hill, 
Slips  toward  her  setting,  meek  and  still ; 
Across  the  Earth's  morn-burnished  brim 
This  brief  space,   face    to  face,   she  looks   on 
him. 


THE   MORNING   MOON.  21 

Soon  the  wide  blue  is  softly  paled; 
The  perfect  day  moves  glory-veiled, 
And  beauty  burns  on  things  below. 
Just  as   it  comes,  why  must  the   sweet   Moon 
go  ? 

For  her  long  patience  of  the  night, 
O  Earth,  in  her  long  patience  bright 
Swing  slow,  and  let  the  meek  Moon  stay ! 
Foolish  !     With  her  it  has  been  always  day ! 

What  far-off  splendor  makes  her  fair 
When  your  small  night  seems  everywhere  ? 
Above  the  world's  low-curving  rim 
Across  her  sky,  she  always  looks  on  Him ! 


LIFE  COLORS. 

WHEN  the  sun  is  in  the  east 
And  the  hill-tops  flash  with  red, 
Blue-dark  stretches  overhead 
All  the  deep,  untraversed  day. 
Still,  along  the  morning  way 
Slopes  of  sky  that  sunward  trend 
Low  their  mellow  arches  bend, 
With  a  tender  light  to  fill 
Of  primrose  and  of  daffodil : 
Fair  with  glories  half  released, 
When  the  sun  is  in  the  east. 

When  the  sun  is  in  the  height, 
All  the  heaven  is  pale  with  heat ; 


LIFE  COLORS.  23 

So  we  walk  with  aching  feet, 
Daring  not  to  lift  our  eyes 
To  that  smiting  from  the  skies. 
Now,  alas,  we  only  know 
Colors  of  the  earth  below ; 
Glad  of  some  benignant  rest 
In  the  greenness  of  her  breast. 
Blinding-full  the  day  burns  white, 
When  the  sun  is  in  the  height. 

When  the  sun  is  in  the  west, 
And  with  backward  smiling  goes, 
Then  the  past  is  flushed  with  rose. 
Clouds  that  had  been  stormy-heaped 
Rest  in  tranquil  purples  steeped  ; 
Where  were  white-hot  stress  and  strain 
Peace  spreads  azure  calms  again : 


24  LIFE  COLORS. 

For  life's  primrose,  faint  and  old, 
Nightward  sweep  her  tides  of  gold, 
Grand  with  glories  unrepressed, 
When  the  sun  is  in  the  west. 


RAINFALL. 

I  HEARD  an  old  farmer  talk  one  day, 

Telling  his  listeners  how 
In  the  great,  new  countries  far  away 

The  rainfall  follows  the  plough. 

"As  fast  as  they  break  it  up,  you  see, 
And  turn  the  heart  to  the  sun,  — 

As  they  open  the  furrows,  deep  and  free, 
And  the  tillage  is  begun, — 

"  The  earth  grows  mellow ;  and  more  and  more 

It  holds,  and  sends  to  the  sky 
A  moisture  it  never  had  before, 

When  its  face  was  hard  and  dry. 


26  RAINFALL. 

"And  so,  wherever  the  ploughshares  run, 

The  clouds  run  overhead  ; 
And  the  soil  that  works,  and  lets  in  the  sun, 

With  water  is  always  fed." 

I  wonder  if  that  old  farmer  knew 

The  half  of  his  simple  word, 
Or  guessed  the  message,  heavenly-true, 

Within  it  hidden  and  heard? 

It  fell  on  my  ear  by  chance  that  day, 

But  the  gladness  lingers  now, 
To  think  it  is  always  God's  dear  way 

That  the  rainfall  follows  the  plough. 


THE    HEART   OF  THE   YEAR. 

WHITE  lay  the  world  in  her  burial  web  : 

Deep  in  December  her  life  was  at  ebb. 

Gray  with  great   clouds,  all  the  air-height  was 

dim; 

Frost-fingers,  cruel  and  stealthy  and  slim, 
Stiffened  and  sheathed  every  brier  and  stem, 
Breaths  of  slow  death-wind  detaining  on  them. 

Heavy  tree-branches  swayed  upward,  and  fell, 
Moved  like  the  swing  of  a  funeral  bell. 
Where  were  the  toss  and  the  shimmer  of  June  ? 
Glory  of  green,  that  had  vanished  so  soon  ? 
Bird-song  and  bloom  ?  I  outquestioned  with  fear, 
"  Heart  of  the  Winter,  art  Heart  of  the  Year  ? " 


28        THE  HEART  OF  THE  YEAR. 

Hush  of  the  snow,  and  dull  moan  of  the 
trees,  — 

Durance  of  all,  —  was  there  answer  in  these  ? 

Durance!  That  said  it  The  things  that  en- 
dure— 

Bear,  and  wait  on  — are  the  things  that  are 
sure ! 

Not  in  the  shroud,  or  the  pall,  or  the  tear,  — 

Deep  in  the  life  is  the  Heart  of  the  Year! 

Down  where  the  pain  and  the  shrinking  can  be 
Bides   the   great    Summer,  for    earth    and    for 

me. 

Down  at  the  quick  it  must  gather  awhile, 
Grow  to  the  fullness,  for  blossom  and  smile : 
Where   the  hope  hides,   under  hindrance  and 

loss, 
Lies  the  heart-presage,  the  sign  of  the  cross  ! 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  YEAR.        29 

Now  it  is  June,  and  the  secret  is  told  : 
Flashed  from  the  buttercup's  glory  of  gold; 
Hummed  in  the  humblebee's  gladness,  and  sung 
New  from   each    bough  where   a   bird's-nest   is 

swung ; 
Breathed  from  the  clover-beds,  when  the  winds 

pass  ; 
Chirped  in  small  psalms,  through  the  aisles  of 

the  grass. 

Beauty  of  roses,  the  lavish  sweet  light, 
Splendor  of  trees,  rearing  up  the  blue  height, 
Smell  of  the  strawberry,  balsam  of  pine, 
Bliss  of  the  brook,  and  this  rapture  of  mine !  — 
Tell  they  not  all,  now  their  heyday  is  here, 
Heart  of  the  Summer  is  Heart  of  the  Year  ? 

Billowing  forest  and  balm-bearing  breeze, 
Outcome  of  life,  —  lies  the  answer  in  these  ? 


3O        THE  HEART  OF  THE  YEAR. 

Waiting,  fulfilling,  —  holds  neither  the  whole  ; 
Greater  the  gospel  than  joyance  or  dole. 
Whether  his  snows  or  his  roses  befall, 
Heart  of  the  Father  is  Heart  of  it  all ! 


SPIKENARD. 

WHAT  was  that  box  of  spikenard,  Lord, 
Which  Mary  brought,  and  at  thy  feet 

Broke,  and  the  ointment  on  Thee  poured 
The  while  Thou  sat'st  with  them  at  meat  ? 

The  house  with  the  sweet  smell  was  filled, 
And  all  the  chambers  of  the  years 

Are  fragrant  with  those  odors  spilled, 
And  tender  with  that  dew  of  tears. 

Ah,  Lord  !  do  I  not  likewise  bring 

Before  Thee,  as  I  lowly  kneel, 
My  costly  grief,  that  hidden  thing, 

And  for  Thee  only  break  the  seal? 


32  SPIKENARD. 

Thou  seest,  human  as  Thou  art, 

Yet  glorified  in  God  again, 
The  broken  box, — a  human  heart, — 
The  precious  oil,  —  its  chrism  of  pain  ! 


FORGETTING. 

WE  climb  up  the  hill  of  the  world, 
The  past  slippeth  under  our  feet; 

Our  morning  horizon  is  furled, 

Though  we  move  in  a  circle  complete. 

Far  forward  the  curtain  of  time 

Lifts  slow,  as  the  way  stretches  on : 

Oh,  is  it  a  curse  or  a  crime 
That  backward  the  vision  is  gone  ? 

Yes,  "  new  every  morning  ;  "  but  see 

How  I  shrink  from  the  strangeness  away ! 

And  "fresh  every  evening;"  ah  me, 

If  the  peace  of  past  evenings  might  stay  ! 


34  FORGETTING. 

I  know  every  line  that  was  there, — 
I  know,  but  I  never  may  hold; 

In  spite  of  my  striving  and  prayer, 
It  is  but  a  tale  that  was  told. 

All  full  is  the  pitiless  space 

Of  a  Now,  while  I  cry  for  my  Then, 
Faded  out  like  a  fair,  precious  face 

That  I  cannot  make  present  again. 

Forgetting  ?    I  will  not  forget  f 

I  will  turn  in  the  way  I  have  trod ! 

Nay,  never  was  wayfarer  yet 

That  could  turn  back  the  courses  of  God! 

Be  quiet ;  yea,  restful  in  change : 
In  a  circle  of  Love  you  are  bound,  — 

Still  meting  a  different  range 
Because  its  whole  measure  is  round. 


FORGETTING.  35 

As  sure  as  in  vanishing  haze 

Your  beautiful  distance  is  rolled, 
So  surely  in  new-risen  days 

You  shall  its  restoring  behold. 

Although  the  whole  earth  swell  between, 
Though  eyes  may  be  blinded  and  wet, 

No  vision  is  blotted,  once  seen: 
For  getting  again,  we  forget  I 

Up  over  the  height  of  the  world 
The  sun  walks  with  glorious  feet; 

Full  eastward  the  planet  is  whirled, 
And  Life  and  the  Day  are  complete ! 


MERIDIAN. 

THERE  is  an  acme  of  all  toils  and  joys, 
A  crisis  of  fulfillment,  when  the  sun 

Hangs  at  the  midsummer,  with  such  a  poise 
As  stayed  the  conquering  noon  on  Gibeon. 

There  is  a  moment  of  the  very  good, 
A  sabbath-breathing  of  the  Deity 

Bending  in  crowned  bliss  of  Fatherhood 
Above  a  world  with  Benedicite. 

There  is  a  summer  solstice  in  the  home, 
Before  a  leaf  has  withered,  or  the  brooks 

Dried  any  drop,  or  any  gap  has  come, 
Or  any  sereness  into  life's  sweet  looks ; 


MERIDIAN.  37 

When  the  white  blooms  and  blushing  fruits  are 
each 

Set  with  one  gradual  beauty  in  the  vine, 
Their  tiny  fragrances  akin  and  rich 

With  the  deep  essence  of  the  tropic  pine ; 

When    the  bright   field  waves    jocund    all    its 

green, 

Its  future  harvest  tasseling  to  silk ; 
Before  the  burdened  ears  begin  to  lean 

With  the  world's    grain,  yet    tender  in   the 
milk. 

It  is  the  father's  and  the  mother's  time: 
The  family  is  full ;  the  house  rings  sweet 

With  baby  words    and    young    girls'   laughter- 
chime, 
And  the  quick  tread  of  coming  manly  feet. 


38  MERIDIAN. 

They  say,  "  It  is  all  ours.     This  little   space 

We  hold  it  back,  and  keep  our   dear  reward. 
Of  earth  and  days  it  is  our  day  and  place, 

And  this  our  heritage  before  the  Lord." 

Mother,  among  your  maidens  so  serene, 

Now    your    life-flower    its     heart-deep    color 
shows : 

Of  womanhood  you  sit  the  absolute  queen ; 
On  a  full-budded  stem  the  perfect  rose. 

No  petal   drooped  from  its   consummate  prime, 
No  breath  lost  of  its  odorous  ecstasy; 

In  this  sweet,  central  moment  of  your  time 
You  touch  your  secret  of  eternity. 

Your  sons  beside  you,  father,  ere  they  go 
Out  on  the  world-path  to  the  work  of  men,  — 


MERIDIAN.  39 

Feel  you  not  such  a  kinghood  as  you  know 
Your  years  shall  never  yield  to  you  again  ? 

They  shall  be  kings,  when   you   shall  lay  you 
down 

At  the  far  end  of  your  full-traveled  road; 
Kings  of  their  time,  heiring  the  selfsame  crown, 

The  human  parentage  from  Parent  God ! 

Ah,  noon  is  day  !     There  is  no  other  one. 

Your  central  height  is  midmost  being,  too; 
The  radiant  solstice  of  your  summer  sun 

Is  heart  of  the  Forever  unto  you ! 

I 

In    tender    round    your     earth     doth    measure 
heaven  ; 

In  your  own  motherhood  and  fatherhood 
Sonship  and  daughtership  to  God  are  given; 

Sign  joineth  sign,  and  life  is  understood. 


4O  MERIDIAN. 

Ay  !     Heaven  is  Home,  and  for  "the  kindreds  " 
built,  — 

Full  of  bright  mansions  sweetly  separate, 
Yet  grand  together,  as  the  starways  spili 

With  suns  as  sand  :  a  dwelling  and  estate, 

Where  all  shall  be  all  we  have  learned  to  be ; 

Yes,  and  the  thing  we  missed  to  learn,  and  so 
In  compensation  of  eternity 

Shall  but  the  dearer  and  the  deeper  know. 

Fear  not !     The  living  Lord's  infinity 

Hath  but  this  type,  where  all  is  reconciled, 

The  perfect  unit  of  his  Trinity, — 
Eternal  Father  and  Eternal  Child ! 


THEIR  ANGELS. 

MY  heart  is  lonely  as  heart  can  be, 
And  the  cry  of  Rachel  goes  up  from  me, 
For  the  tender  faces  unforgot 
Of  the  little  children  that  are  not, 
Although 

I  know 
They  are  all  in  the  land  where  I  shall  go. 

I  want  them  close  in  the  dear  old  way ; 
But  life  goes  forward,  and  will  not  stay, 
And  He  who  made  it  has  made  it  right. 
Yet  I  miss  my  darlings  out  of  my  sight, 
Although 

I  know 
They  are  all  in  the  land  where  I  shall  go. 


42  THEIR   ANGELS. 

Only  one  has  died.   There  is  one  small  mound, 
Violet-heaped,  in  the  sweet  grave-ground  : 
Twenty  years  they  have  bloomed  and.  spread 
Over  the  little  baby  head; 
And,  oh  ! 

I  know 
She  is  safe  in  the  land  where  I  shall  go. 

Not  dead  :  only  grown,  and  gone  away. 
The  hair  of  my  girlie  is  turning  gray 
That  was  golden  once,  in  the  days  so  dear, 
Over  for  many  and  many  a  year. 
Yet  I  know, 

I  know, 
She's  a  child  in  the  land  where  I  shall  go. 

My  bright,  brave  boy  is  a  grave-eyed  man, 
Facing  the  world  as  a  worker  can ; 


THEIR  ANGELS.  43 

But  I  think  of  him  now  as  I  had  him  then, 
And  I  lay  his  cheek  to  my  heart  again, 
And  so, 

I  know 
I  shall  have  him  there  where  we  both  shall  go. 

Out  from  the  Father  and  into  life ; 
Back  to  his  breast  from  the  ended  strife 
And  the  finished  labor.     I  hear  the  word 
From  the  lips  of  Him  who   was   Child  and 

Lord, 
And  I  know 

That  so 
It  shall  be  in  the  land  where  we  all  shall  go. 

Given  back,  with  the  gain.     The  secret  this 
Of  the  blessed  Kingdom  of  children  is! 
My  mother's  arms  are  waiting  for  me; 


44  THEIR  ANGELS. 

I  shall  lay  my  head  on  my  father's  knee; 
For  so 

I  know 
I  'm  a  child  myself  where  I  shall  go. 

The  world  is  troublous,  and  hard,  and  cold, 
And  men  and  women  grow  gray  and  old; 
But  behind  the  world  is  an  inner  place, 
Where  yet  their  angels  behold  God's  Face. 
And  lo! 

We  know 
That  only  the  children  can  see  Him  so ! 


SONGS   OF  PRAISES. 

IN  a  dried  old  mow  that  was  once,  alas  ! 

A  living  glory  of  waving  grass, 

A  cricket  made  merry  one  winter's  day  ; 

And  answered  me  this,  in  a  wondrous  way, 

When    I    cried   half    sharply,    "Thou   poor  old 

thing  ! 

How  canst  thou  sit  in  the  dark  and  sing, 
When    for  all  thy  pleasure  of  youth  thou  star- 
vest  ? " 

"  I  'm  the   voice  of  praise   that    came   in   with 
the  harvest." 

I  went  away  to  the  silent  wood, 

And  down  in  the  deep  brown  solitude, 


46  SONGS  OF  PRAISES. 

Where  nothing  blossomed  and  nothing  stirred, 
Uprose  the  note  of  a  little  bird. 
"  Why  carolest  thou  in  the  death  of  the  year, 
Where  nobody  traveleth  by  to  hear  ? " 
"  I  sing  to  God,  though  there  be  no  comer, 
Praise   for   the    past    and  the    promise  of  sum- 
mer." 

I  stopped  by  the  brook,  that,  overglassed 
With  icy  sheathing,  seemed  prisoned  fast ; 
Yet  there  whispered  up  a  continual  song 
From  the  life  underneath  that  urged  along. 
"O  blind  little  brook,  that  canst  not  know 
Whither  thou  runnest,  why  chantest  so  ? " 
"I  don't  know  what  I  may  find  or  be, 
But  I  'm  praising  for  this,  —  I  am  going  to  see." 


THE  WITNESS. 

THAT  human  hearts  can  lean  on  God 

Is  argument  of  Deity: 
Unless  a  planet,  how  a  clod 

At  rest  in  earth's  great  gravity  ? 

An  Image  stands*  all-glorious 
Before  our  comprehension  dim  : 

Either  He  hath  created  us, 

Or  our  poor  thought  createth  Him ! 

Are  all  the  Wisdom,  Might,  and  Love 
That  I  have  learned  but  part  of  me? 

Do  I  the  possible  reach  above  ? 
Can  I  believe,  and  God  not  be  ? 


48  THE   WITNESS. 

But  —  Infinite  Kindness  !  —  Art  so  sure  ? 

Whence  all  the  evil  that  we  know, — 
Souls  born  in  ignorance,  to  endure 

Each  certain  penalty  of  woe? 

Pitiful  weakness,  that  must  fail, 

A  groping  blindness,  that  must  fall, 

And  miseries  waiting,  —  what  avail 

Had  Love,  when  Power  established  all? 

Ah,  in  the  dust  we  are  sublime ! 

Even  in  our  weakness  we  can  bear! 
Blind,  can  discern  a  coming  time, 

Wrong,  to  the  Righteous  lift  our  prayer! 

Is  ours  the  only  tenderness, 

The  sole  long-suffering  ?     Sinful,  crude, 
May  we  conceive  what  yet  shall  bless, 

Can  we  still  trust,  —  and  God  not  good  ? 


KYRIE  ELEISON. 

IN  his  glory  !     When  the  spheres 
Lighten  with  that  wondrous  blaze, 

How  shall  all  my  sins  and  fears 
Meet  thy  dawning,  Day  of  days? 

"Nothing  hid!"     No  thought  so  mean 

That  to  darkness  it  may  creep ; 
Very  darkness  shall  be  seen, 
Very  death  to  life  shall  leap. 

Nothing  deep,  or  far,  or  old; 

Nothing  left,  in  years  behind; 
All  the  secret  self  unrolled  : 

Light  of  God  !     I  would  be  blind ! 


50  KYRIE  ELEISON. 

Only  I  shall  see  a  Face 

In  the  glory  lifted  up ; 
And  a  Hand,  —  the  Hand  of  grace 

Whose  sweet  mercy  held  the  Cup. 

And  a  Voice,  I  think,  will  speak, 

Asking  of  each  sin-defiled 
Whom  his  saving  came  to  seek, 

As  a  mother  asks  her  child  : 

"Wert  thou  sorry?" 

"  Yea,  dear  Christ, 
Sick  and  sorry  I  have  been, 
Wearily  thy  ways  have  missed  : 
Wash  my  feet,  and  lead  me  in ! 

"Though  in  this  clear  light  of  thine 
Sin  and  sore  must  stand  revealed, 


KYRIE  ELEISON. 

Though  no  stainless  health  be  mine, 
Count  me,  Lord,  among  the  healed. 

"Not  with  scribe  and  pharisee 

Dare  I  crave  an  upmost  seat ; 
Only,  Saviour,  suffer  me 
With  the  sinners  at  thy  feet!" 


FULFILLED. 

"  He  was  known  of  them  in  the  breaking  of  bread." 

GOOD  things  had  befallen  me   all  through  the 

day  : 

A  blessing  of  morsels,  —  small  helps  by  the  way ; 
Work  running  on  even,  and  coming  out  right ; 
Bright  thoughts  with  the  morning,  good  words 

at  the  night. 

So  evening  was  sweet,  and  as  shadows  fell  deep 
My  spirit  was  turned  to  the  Lord  of  the  sheep. 
"  Thou  leadest !  Thou  feedest !  "  in  silence  I  said : 
"  And  the  crumbs  from  thy  hand  are  the  best 
of  the  bread. 


FULFILLED.  53 

"  We  know  how  Thou  blessest  and  breakest  it 

then; 

Not  giving  thy  life  to  the  children  of  men 
As  whole  in  the  loaf,  and  Thou  done  with  us 

so, 
But  meed  to  our  need,  every  step  that  we  go. 

"  O  dear  daily  bread,  and  the  thought  for  no  more  ! 
The  not  knowing  whence,  that  is  infinite  store  ! 
The  grand  perad venture  it  is  to  be  poor, 
Through    sureness  of    waiting  on  Him  who  is 
sure ! 

"O  lilies  and  birds!" 

In  a  redolence  sweet 

One  word  of  the  parable  breathed  at  my  feet ; 
And  a  sign  in  the  depths  of  the  amber-lit  west, 
Alive  with  winged    creatures,   was    saying    the 
rest. 


54  FULFILLED. 

They  rushed    up    in    clouds,  like  a  tempest  of 

life; 

All  heaven  was  full  of  the  beautiful  strife; 
From  the  gold  to  the  blue  in  a  rapturous  chase 
They  crowded,  and  crowded,  and  yet  there  was 

space. 

They  gathered  and  parted,  they  shot  and   they 

swept, 

Ever  east,  where  the  first  early  duskiness  crept ; 
From  heart  of  the  glory  to  edge  of  the  shade, 
All  the  way  as  they  moved  a  sweet  scripture 

they  made. 

For,  swirling  and  darting,  each  line  of  their  flight 
Scored  a  letter  of  promise  against  the  clear  light  : 
"  In  a  seeming  of  emptiness,  teeming  with  good, 
God's    forecastless    swallows   are    finding    their 
food !  " 


SPRING  IN  THE   CITY. 

IT  is  not  much  that  makes  me  glad : 
I  hold  more  than  I  ever  had. 
The  empty  hand  may  farther  reach, 
And  small  sweet  signs  all  beauty  teach. 

I  like  the  city  in  the  spring; 
It  has  a  hint  of  everything. 
Down  in  the  yard  I  like  to  see 
The  budding  of  that  single  tree. 

The  little  sparrows  on  the  shed, 
The  scrap  of  soft  sky  overhead, 
The  cat  upon  the  sunny  wall, — 
There's  so  much  meant  among  them  all. 


56  SPRING   IN   THE   CITY. 

The  dandelion  in  the  cleft 

A  broken  pavement  may  have  left 

Is  like  the  star  that,  still  and  sweet, 

Shines  where  the  housetops  almost  meet 

I  like  a  little  ;  all  the  rest 
Is  somewhere ;  and  our  Lord  knows  best 
How  the  whole  robe  hath  grace  for  them 
Who  only  touch  the  garment's  hem. 


LITTLE  MAID   BERTHA'S   STORK.1 

TURRET  balcony,  high  in  air, 

On  a  castle  grim  and  grand ; 
And  little  maid  Bertha  standing  there, 
Feeding  a  stork  from  her  hand. 

"  O  beautiful  summer-bird  !  "  she  said, 

"Coming  so  sure  to  me 
From  the  wide,  white  sands  of  the  desert  dead, 

Or  the  Holy  Land,  over  the  sea; 

"Tell  me  some  of  the  wonderful  things 
That  you  must  certainly  know 

1  From  a  real  incident,  told  by  one  to  whose  knowledge  it 
came  while  at  the  Syrian  Mission  in  Beirflt. 


60  LITTLE   MAID   BERTHA'S   STORK. 

Of  the  countries  where  you  shut  your  wings 
And  stay  all  the  winter  so  ; 

"  Of  the  broken  palaces  by  the  banks 
Of  the  Nile,  and  the  temples  there, 

That  stand  with  their  columns  in  awful  ranks, 
So  still,  in  the  silent  air. 

"  Have  you  made  your  nest  on  some  monstrous 
arch,  — 

I  've  seen  the  pictures,  you  know,  — 
Where  Pharaoh's  soldiers  used  to  march 

Out  to  battle,  ages  ago  ? 

"  Have  you  lit  on  the  Sphinx's  shoulder,  dear  ? 

Did  you  learn  any  strange  old  word 
That  your  grandfather  Ibis  used  to  hear, 

But  that  men  have  never  heard  ? 


LITTLE   MAID   BERTHA'S   STORK.  6 1 

"I  believe  the  reason  your  bright  red  beak 

Is  dumb  is  because  they  sealed 
Your  bird  voice  up,  lest  a  note  should  speak, 

And  their  secrets  be  revealed. 

"  Have  you  looked  old  Memnon  in  the  face  ? 

Has  he  got  any  face  ?     Or  hid 
Your  brood  far  up  on  some  reachless  place 

At  the  peak  of  a  pyramid  ? 

"Or,  best  of  all,  I  would  learn,  sweet  stork, 
Of  the  streets  and  the  temple-stairs 

Where  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  used  to  walk, 
And  the  hills  where  He  said  his  prayers. 

"  Did  you  ever  light  where  the  Christ  sat  down, 
And  the  thousands  below  Him  stood, 


62  LITTLE  MAID   BERTHA'S   STORK. 

While  He  spoke  to  the  world  from  the  moun- 
tain's crown 
His  words  of  beatitude  ? 

"Have  you  drunk  from  Jordan  some  blessed 
drop,  — 

Flown  over  Gennesareth  ? 
Have  you  had  a  home  on  some  pleasant  top 

Of  a  house  in  Nazareth  ? 

"  Did  you  ever  live  in  Jerusalem  ? 

Have  you  seen  the  Sorrowful  Way, 
Where  the  crowds  rushed  up,  and  He  went  with 
them, 

On  the  Crucifixion  Day? 

"  I  'm  sure  you  would  stop  on  Olivet, 
Where  the  Palm  Procession  trod. 


LITTLE   MAID   BERTHA'S   STORK.  63 

Is  the  Saviour's  footprint  shining  yet, 
That  He  left  when  He  rose  to  God? 

"Ah,  you  cannot  answer  one  word  of  mine, 

My  bird  with  the  silent  bill ! 
I  '11  wait,  and  watch  for  some  different  sign 

You  may  bring  or  send  me  still. 

"And  see,  I  will  hang  about  your  throat 

This  locket,  with  silver  chain; 
You  shall  carry  in  it  the  little  note 

I  have  writ,  when  you  go  again. 

"  I  've  begged   the  dear  people  where  you  may 
be, 

In  the  lands  I  have  never  seen, 
To  care  for  you  when  you  are  far  from  me, 

And  be  kind  as  I  have  been. 


64  LITTLE  MAID  BERTHA'S   STORK. 

"And  perhaps  some  beautiful  day  next  year, 
When  you  come  on  your  northward  track, 

And  flap  your  wing  at  my  window  here, 
You  may  bring  me  a  message  back ! " 

The   winds   blew    sweet   with    the   spring-time 
smells 

Of  grass  and  blossom  and  tree  ; 
And  hunters  were  out  for  the  wild  gazelles 

On  the  plains  of  Galilee. 

A  troop  of  the  swift,  shy,  graceful  things 

Went  suddenly  flashing  by, 
Like  creatures  skimming  the  earth  with  wings, 

Or  lightnings  crossing  the  sky. 

An  aimless  shot  from  a  rifle  rang : 
Some  birds  rushed  overhead  ; 


LITTLE  MAID  BERTHA'S   STORK.  65 

The  gunner  after  his  quarry  sprang, 
For  a  great  white  stork  fell  dead. 

Ah,  the  little  locket,  the  silver  chain, 
That  they  crowded  round  to  see ! 

Never  may  Bertha's  bird  again 
Go  northward  from  Galilee ! 

I    think   there  were  tears   in    the    sportsman's 
eyes, 

And  his  tone  had  a  tremble,  when 
He  drew  from  the  trinket  the  strange  surprise, 

And  read  it  to  those  rough  men. 

"  'T  was   a  pitiful   chance  !  "    spoke  a  comrade. 
"  Yes  ! " 

The  answer  came  ruefully. 
"  I  think  I  would  almost,  sooner  than  this, 

It  had  been  my  hand,"  said  he. 


66  LITTLE  MAID  BERTHA'S   STORK. 

They  buried  the  bird  in  the  hyacinths  there, 

Under  Mount  Tabor's  foot ; 
Letter  and  locket  they  carried  with  care 

To  the  Consul,  in  old  Beirut. 

"Fraulein  von  Wildberg."     A  packet  came 

One  day  to  the  castle  gate. 
Bertha,  the  child,  scarce  knows  her  name, 

Writ 'out  in  its  titled  state. 

An  inner  parcel.     A  letter.     A  stem 

Of  dried  blue  hyacinth  bells ; 
And  somehow  tender  with  breath  of  them, 

The. story  the  letter  tells. 

"Died  at  Mount  Tabor.    Don't  cry  for  me,"- 

So  runneth  the  gentle  word: 
"  For  the  Man  who  once  walked  in  Galilee 

Still  cares  for  the  child  and  bird." 


LITTLE  MAID  BERTHA'S  STORK.  6/ 

There  was  bitter  grief  and  sobbing  awhile  ; 

Then  she  paused,  and  lovingly 
Hung  the  locket  about  her  neck  with  a  smile. 

"  I  will  wear  it  always,"  said  she. 

"  And  so  it  were  best,  if  it  were  at  all ; 

For  I  truly  can  understand, 
If  ever  He  watches  the  sparrow's  fall, 

He  would  watch  in  the  Holy  Land." 

So  sign  and  message  came  back  to  her, — 

A  burden  of  love  and  tears ; 
Like  a  rose  bound  up  with  juniper, 

To  sweeten  and  heal  the  years. 

Till  for  pain  or  gladness  she  had  but  this : 
"  All  cometh  from  One  Good  Hand ; 

I  know  that  the  earth  and  our  hearts  are  his, 
And  both  are  his  Holy  Land!" 


THE  CHRIST-CHILD  AND  THE  CHIL- 
DREN. 

MARY  lay,  meek  and  mild, 
Straw-pillowed  among  the  gentle  kine,  — 
Mary,  of  Israel's  kingly  line, 

And  beside  her  the  little  Child. 

Strangers  were  seeking  her, — 
Stately  strangers  before  the  gate ; 
Leaving  their  laden  camels  to  wait 

With  gold,  and  incense,  and  myrrh. 

Wise  men  and  sceptred  kings ; 
Led  to  the  Baby  from  afar 
By  beautiful  beckon  of  a  star, 

Bringing  Him  precious  things. 


THE  CHRIST-CHILD  AND  THE  CHILDREN.       69 

The  sweet  girl-mother  smiled, 
With  strange  delight  that  was  half  a  dread, 
As  they  laid  them  down  beside  her  bed,  — 

Gifts  for  the  little  Child. 

Did  the  daughter  of  David  know, 
As  she  put  them  into  his  helpless  hands, 
How  for  little  and  poor  in  all  the  lands 

Jesus  received  them  so  ? 

Or  thought  she,  as  she  smiled, 
How  always,  upon  that  blessed  morn 
When  her  Baby  in  Bethlehem  was  born, 

The  Child  should  give  to  the  child 

In  homes  that  were  to  be? 
Dividing  the  gifts  from  his  manger-bed, 
As  He  once  divided  the  loaves  of  bread 

To  the  people  by  the  sea. 


7O     THE   CHRIST-CHILD   AND   THE   CHILDREN. 

Ah,  gifts  of  the  Christmas-Day ! 
From  the  bitter  and  costly  offered  then, 
And  taken  for  sakes  of  the  sons  of  men, 

They  have  come  down  all  the  way ! 


HYMN  FOR  THE  CHILDREN'S  MIS- 
SION. 

SEEK  and  save !     Seek  and  save  ! 

By  his  word  the  Eternal  Christ 
Yet  on  earth  repeats  the  birth 

Of  the  Life  once  sacrificed. 

Seek  and  save  !     Seek  and  save  ! 

Little  angels  who  behold, 
Far  and  dim,  the  Face  of  Him, 

Wander  in  the  waste  and  cold. 

Verily,  verily, 

By  each  help  you  hold  to  them, 
In  so  much  your  fingers  touch 

Of  his  robe  the  living  hem. 


72         HYMN  FOR  THE  CHILDREN'S   MISSION. 

Bear  them  up  !     Bear  them  up  ! 

Lift  his  garment  from  the  dust  : 
So  to  you  shall  ever  new 

Flow  the  grace  wherein  we  trust 

Bethlehem !     Bethlehem ! 

Still  thy  manger,  Lord,  we  see; 
Still  may  say,  Tis  Christmas  Day 

Every  day  we  do  for  Thee! 


FEBRUARY. 

WILL  winter  never  be  over  ? 

Will  the  dark  days  never  go? 
Must  the  buttercup  and  the  clover 

Be  always  hid  under  the  snow  ? 

Ah,  lend  me  your  little  ear,  love! 

Hark  !  't  is  a  beautiful  thing  : 
The  weariest  month  of  the  year,  love, 

Is  shortest  and  nearest  the  spring ! 


GRANDMAMMA'S  VALENTINE. 

"Two  little  birdies  after  one  fly! 

Wonder  if  may  be  they  mean  you  and  I,  — 

Will-Boy  and  Jim  ? 

Two  little  b'udders,  —  that  you  can  see,  — 
And  if  one  of  'em  's  you,  and  the  other  is  me, 

Wonder  who  's  him  ? 

"  Butterflies  is  such  —  ex-tron-ymous  things  ! 
Nothing  at  all  but  just  two  little  wings. 
Guess  they  must  be 

Live  thinkie-winkies.     Wonder  if  this 
Is  n't  a  think,  or  a  sweet  flying  kiss 
F'om  Gannie  to  we  ? 


GRANDMAMMA'S    VALENTINE.  75 

"  S'pose  we  can  catch  it  ?    And  then  if  we  do, 
Is  one  half  for  I,  and  the  other  for  you  ? 

Or,  s'pose  we  just  look  ! 
A  fly  does  n't  want  to  be  tore  into  two,  — 
And  a  kiss  is  as  good,  when  you  know  it  has 
flew, 

As  if  it  was  took ! " 


THE   DEACON'S   LITTLE   MAID. 

IN  this  new  world  that  was  waiting  when 
The  Star  in  the  East  shone  down, 

And  lighted  the  steps  of  the  Magian  men 
To  the  inn  in  Bethlehem  town, — 

Many  a  hillside  sloped  to  the  sun, 

Or  dipped  to  a  shining  sea, 
Fair  for  God's  presence  as  ever  one 

In  Judah  or  Galilee. 

Many  a  soul  that  was  tarrying  then 

Till  centuries  should  go  by, 
To  take  its  place  in  the  line  of  men, 

To  the  Lord  was  just  as  nigh 


THE   DEACON'S   LITTLE   MAID.  77 

As  John,  or  Mary,  or  Lazarus, 
Who  walked  with  Him  by  the  way, 

For  the  blessed  sign  it  should  be  to  us 
That  He  walks  at  our  side  to-day. 

So,  lovely  with  love  that  hath  no  compare, 

The  very  names  grew  dear ; 
And  Maries  and  Johns  are  everywhere, 

And  Bethels  are  builded  here. 

Deep  in  the  green  New  England  hills, 

In  a  dimple  fair  to  see 
With  orchards  whose  fruitage  the  summer  fills, 

Lies  a  little  Bethany. 

And  looking  eastward  between  the  farms, 

As -over  the  river  you  go, 
Stately  with  elms  as  the  old  with  palms, 

You  may  see  sweet  Jericho. 


78  THE   DEACON'S   LITTLE   MAID. 

What  wonder  that  Mary,  the  little  maid, 

Pondering  Bible  lore, 
Pictured,  wherever  her  steps  had  strayed, 

Those  marvelous  things  of  yore  ? 

That  the  darksome  hollow  beyond  the  bridge, 

Where  the  pollard  willows  stood, 
And  the  steep,  rough  roadway  up  the  ridge? 

In  the  gloom  of  the  hemlock  wood, 

Should  seem  like  the  wayside  where  the  thieves 

Beset  the  traveler-man, 
And  left  him,  all  wounded,  upon  the  leaves, 

For  the  Good  Samaritan  ? 

Or  the  scathed  old  pear-tree  by  the  brook, 

That  the  lightning  in  a  night, 
When  the  farm-house  with  the  thunder  shook, 

Left  ghastly,  and  dead,  and  white, 


THE   DEACON'S   LITTLE   MAID.  79 

Should  be  to  her  fancy  the  fig-tree,  bare, 
Or  yielding  but  bitter  and  worst, 

That  the  Lord,  when  He  found  it  fruitless  there, 
With  an  endless  withering  cursed? 

That  scanning  the  houses  far  away 

On  the  hillsides  in  the  sun, 
She  questioned,  many  an  innocent  day, 

Which  was  the  very  one 

Where  the  brother  and  sisters  sat  at  meat 
With  their  Friend,  when  the  day  was  low, 

And  Mary  lovingly  washed  the  Feet 
That  had  journeyed  in  mercy  so  ? 

She  was  Deacon  Sternbold's  little  maid ; 

Her  mother  was  Kindly  True : 
Primer  and  hymns  to  her  sire  she  said, 

But  her  heart  the  mother  knew. 


8O  THE   DEACON'S    LITTLE   MAID. 

Helping  the  dame  one  Saturday  morn 

At  the  churn,  all  suddenly  she 
Cried,  "  Mother,  oh,  I  wish  I  'd  been  born 

Real  Mary  of  Bethany! 

"Or  I  wish  that  Jesus  would  walk  in  here, 
And  would  call  me  to  Him,  and  say, 

With  his  eyes'  great  glory  upon  me,  'Dear, 
Come  sit  at  my  feet  all  day!'" 

"And  does  n't  He?"  answered  the  mother  sweet. 

"  Can  you  think  it,  except  He  say  ? 
To  love  Him  well  is  to  sit  at  his  feet, — 

To  serve  Him,  to  bide  alway. 

"Now  bring   me  the  tray,  and  the  spats  and 

prints, 
Cool  in  the  well-head  there ; 


THE  DEACON'S   LITTLE  MAID.  8 1 

Then  finish  the  seams  of  your  gown  of  chintz 
That  to-morrow  you  may  wear. 

"And  if  baby  wakes  from  his  long  nice  nap, 

Just  sing  him  your  little  song 
While  mother's  busy;  the  work  mayhap 

Won't  need  to  hinder  us  long." 

Maid  Mary  went  at  the  gentle  word; 

Some  beautiful  inward  smile 
Dawning  up  to  her  face,  as  if  she  heard 

More  than  was  spoken  the  while. 

For  the  child's  deep  heart  was  beating  still 

With  joy  of  that  saying  sweet : 
"To  bide  with  Him  is  to  do  his  will, — 

To  love  Him,  to  sit  at  his  feet." 


82  THE   DEACON'S   LITTLE   MAID. 

So  while  she  fetched  the  spats  and  the  prints, 

And  hastened  away  to  sew 
With  ready  ringers  the  gown  of  chintz, 

She  went  as  the  angels  go. 

And  sitting  there  by  the  cradle-side, 
When  a  comrade  lifted  the  latch, 

And  eagerly  signed  to  the  pasture  wide, 
And  whispered,  "  Blackberry  patch  !  " 

Softly  she  shook  her  delicate  head, 

But  smiled  as  she  did  it,  too ; 
Till  the  other  guessed  she  must  know,  instead, 

Of  a  pleasanter  thing  to  do. 

And  when  the  baby  awoke  at  last, 
Fretting  with  sleepy  whim, 


THE  DEACON'S   LITTLE   MAID.  83 

Though  the    seam  was   done,  and  an  hour  was 

past, 
Still  she  smiled,  —  "  I  can  wait,  with  Him  !  " 

When  the  older  brothers  came  whooping  in,  — 

Roger  and  roguish  Dan,  — 
Routing  her  quiet  with  rollicking  din, 

And  teasing,  as  brothers  can ; 

And  father,  vexed  at  a  mischief  played, 

Full  hastily  called  and  chid,  — 
Never  a  cloud  on  the  face  of  the  maid 

The  beautiful  brightness  hid. 

For  what  could  take  her  with  ill  surprise, 

Or  what  could  provoke  a  frown, 
When  she  knew  the  glory  of  Jesus'  eyes 

Was  over  her,  looking  down  ? 


84  THE  DEACON'S  LITTLE  MAID. 

So  Saturday's  nightfall  folded  the  hill, 
And  the  Day  of  the  Sun  broke  bright, 

And  the  good  folk  gathered,  sedate  and  still, 
In  the  meeting-house  on  the  height. 

With  her  tender  secret  in  her  face, 

Maid  Mary  sat  in  the  pew ; 
The  Lord,  who  was  here  in  his  Holy  Place, 

Had  been  at  home  with  her,  too. 

And  when  the  people  stood  up  to  pray, 

As  the  custom  used  to  be, 
She  whispered,  "  Dear  Christ,  like  yesterday 

Make  all  the  to-days,  for  me ! " 

Ah,  many  a  Mary,  merry  or  staid, 
On  the  hillsides  there  might  be  : 

But  was  not  the  Deacon's  dear  little  maid 
Real  Mary  of  Bethany? 


MIDSUMMER   WORDS. 

WHAT  can  they  want  of  a  midsummer  verse 
In  the  flush  of  the  midsummer  splendor  ? 

For  the  Empress  of  Ind  shall  I  pull  out  my  purse, 
And  offer  a  penny  to  lend  her  ? 

Who  wants  a  song  when  the  birds  are  a-wing, 

Or  a  fancy  of  words  when  the  least  little  thing 
Hath  message  so  wondrous  and  tender? 

The  trees  are  all  plumed  with  their  leafage  su- 
perb, 

And  the  rose  -and  the  lily  are  budding ; 
And  wild,  happy  life,  without  hindrance  or  curb, 
Through  the  woodland  is  creeping  and  scud- 
ding. 
The  clover  is  purple  ;  the  air  is  like  mead, 


86  MIDSUMMER  WORDS. 

With  odor  escaped  from  the  opulent  weed, 
And  over  the  pasture-sides  flooding. 

Every  note  is  a  tune,  every  breath  is  a  boon  ; 

'T  is  poem  enough  to  be  living. 
Why  fumble  for  phrase  while  magnificent  June 

Her  matchless  recital  is  giving  ? 
Why  not  to  the  music  and  picturing  come, 
And  just  with  the  manifest  marvel  sit  dumb, 

In  silenced  delight  of  receiving  ? 

Ah,  listen  !    Because  the  great  Word  of  the  Lord, 
That  was  born  in  the  world  to  begin  it, 

Makes  answering  word  in  ourselves  to  accord, 
And  was  put  there  on  purpose  to  win  it. 

And    the   fullness    would    smother    us,  only  for 
this,  — 

We  can  cry  to  each  other,  "  How  lovely  it  is  ! 
And  how  blessed  it  is  to  be  in  it !  " 


"NIGH   AND   BY." 

A  BEAUTIFUL  plaything  in  a  drawer, 

A  beautiful  book  on  a  shelf: 
Mamma  will  bring  them  to  read  and  show  her ; 

She  may  not  have  them  herself. 
Precious  treasure,  hidden  and  high, 
Held  with  the  promise  of  "By  and  by." 
"  Nigh  and  by  !  "  says  the  child, 

As  she  lets  them  go, 
And  folds  her  hands  with  a  quiet  look  : 
"  Nigh  and  by,  mamma,  when  I  grow  ! " 

"  Ain't  they  your  ownty-donty,  then  ? " 

A  playmate  teases  one  day. 
"  /  would  n't  care  for  pretty  things  when 

They  were  always  put  away  !  " 


88  "NIGH   AND  BY." 

It  never  had  come  to  her  so  before: 
She  waits  a  minute,  —  ponders  it  o'er; 
Then  the  old  "  Nigh  and  by  !  " 

Rings  cheery  and  true. 
"You  see  —  they  are  ownty-donty,  now; 
Nigh  and  by,  they  '11  be  ownty-di?  / " 

Baby  wisdom  is  angel  grace, 
And  a  lisp  translateth  new 
Promise  that  speaks  in  the  Father's  face, 

Hidden  from  me  and  you. 
Heart  that  yearns  for  the  put-away, 
The  sweet  child-syllables  learn  to  say! 
For  the  hard  "By  and  by," 

If  we  search  it  through, 
With  double  sureness  of  "soon"  and  "nigh," 
Is  dearer  synonym  than  we  knew. 


THE  DEAR   LOST  THING. 

A  TOY  balloon  of  gorgeous  red 

Made  the  child's  heart  all  bounding  glad. 
"  Oh,  see,  mamma  !     It  is,"  he  said, 
"  The  dearest  thing  I  ever  had  ! " 

Held  by  a  slight  and  silken  thread, 
The  fairy  globe,  so  round  and  clear, 

Now  close  beside,  now  overhead, 
Swung  in  the  sunny  atmosphere.- 

A  something  in  the  joyous  word, 
A  something  in  the  slender  hold, 

Touched  the  deep  mother-thought,  and  stirred 
An  anguish  tongue  hath  never  told. 


90  THE   DEAR  LOST   THING. 

This  was  her  gentle  second-born  ; 

Her  first,  —  ah,  just  so  proud  and  glad, 
She  cried  of  him,  one  vanished  morn, 

"The  dearest  thing  I  ever  had!" 

In  just  such  weak,  uncertain  grasp 
She  held  her  joy,  undreaming  pain  ; 

The  frail  cord  snapped;  her  love's  wild  clasp 
Clung  to  its  drifting  strand  in  vain. 

"  Gone ! "     The  low  word  of  letters  few 

That  thrills  like  stroke  of  passing  bell, 
The  pang  repeating,  ever  new, 

On  her  heart's  silence  quivering  fell. 

She  half  forgot  the  boy  who  played 
About  her  feet,  this  summer  day. 
"  Only  a  little  year !  "  she  said  : 

"  Only  just  now,  — and  now,  away  !  " 


THE  DEAR  LOST  THING.  91 

A  sudden  wail  of  baby  woe,  — 

Ah,  baby  woe,  that  comes  so  soon ! 

I  did  n't  mean  to  let  it  go  ! 

O  mamma  dear  !     My  dear  balloon  ! 

It  flew,  —  right  up,  —  so  high,  so  high  !  — 
Just  where  dear  brother  Johnnie  flew ! 

Did  some  one  pull  it  from  the  sky  ? 
Did  brother  Johnnie  want  it,  too  ? " 

No  answer:  close  the  darling  pressed. 

"  He  may  !     He  '11  keep  it  safe,"  he  said. 
The  mother  caught  him  to  her  breast ; 

And  so  the  two  were  comforted. 


SILVER  WEDDING. 

IVE  and  twenty !     Solemn  and  clear 
Rings  the  chime  of  the  silver  year! 


Hundreds  by  hundreds  the  days  are  gone, 
Thousands  by  thousands  the  hours  have  flown, 
Millions  by  millions  the  minutes  rushed  on : 
Half  the  wealth  of  a  human  life 
Counted  over,  —  husband  and  wife ! 

Five  and  twenty!     May  they  be  told 
Once  again  to  the  year  of  gold! 
Hundreds  of  happy  days  to  come, 
Thousands  of  blessed  hours  to  bloom, 
Millions  of  minutes  to -make  the  home 
Fairer,  richer,  in  later  life  : 
Count  them  onward,  —  husband  and  wife ! 


96  SILVER  WEDDING. 

Little  measures,  of  swift  record, 
Lost  in  the  wonderful  Year  of  the  Lord, 
Whose  minutes  are  deeds  that  the  angels  do, 
Whose   hours    are    struck   by  the  Word  of  the 

True, 
Whose    Day    is    the    Love    that    lights    them 

through. 

In  the  timeless  Year  of  the  Perfect  Life, 
Count  your  wedlock,  —  husband  and  wife  ! 


GOLDEN  TIMES. 

THE  east  is  golden  when  our  day  is  born ; 
Purple  and  amber  stretch  the  canopies 
Above  the  cradle  of  the  commonest  morn. 
And  yet  the  beauty  of  those  opening  skies 
Is  scarce  for  us,  but  gladdens  elder  eyes  : 
We  do  not  wake  to  see  our  own  sunrise. 

There  is  a  golden  hour  of  day  and  year, 
All  spring,  all  morning :  every  field  is  prime 
With  green,  and  starred  with  glory  ;  memory  here 
Begins  the  count  of  joy  ;  a  happy  chime 
Where   smallest   pleasure   makes   the   roundest 

rhyme,  — 
Our  buttercup  and  dandelion  time. 


98  GOLDEN  TIMES. 

There  is  a  shining  as  the  sun  climbs  on, 

Between  the  dawn  and  midday ;  when  our  June 

Warms  toward  the  solstice,  and  we  feel  upon 

Our  life  the  joy,  not  burden,  of  its  noon,  — 

Prelude,  like  sweetest  cadence  of  a  tune, 

To  the  full  chord  that  shall  be  sounded  soon. 

Then  golden  lilies  in  the  garden  gleam, 
And  roses  blow,  and   orioles  build  and  sing; 
And  sparkles  flash  upon  the  brimming  stream, 
And  butterflies  go  by  on  yellow  wing  ; 
And    fireflies    shine,    and    brighter    than    the 

spring 

Are  stars,  and  moons,  nights,  days,  and  every- 
thing. 

High  noon  next,  and  full  summertide.  The  press, 
The  heat,  and  toil  bear  down  upon  us.     How 


GOLDEN  TIMES.  99 

In  this  mere  sufferance  and  breathlessness 
The  color  of  our  daylight  may  we  know? 
God  fills  the  sky  so  full,  it  does  not  show 
The  sweetness  of  its  splendor  as  we  go. 

And  yet  the  fiery  days,  as  they  speed  past, 
Are  golden  times,  —  the  golden  time  of  work, 
And  faith,  and  strength,  and  loyal  holding  fast, 
However  the  hard  stress  may  pain  and  irk  : 
God  knows  the  blessings  that  among  them  lurk 
Wait  only  for  the  soul  that  scorns  to  shirk. 

And  then,  at  last,  the  mellowing  of  the  leaf, 
The  leaning  of  our  sun  toward  its  west, 
The  great,  rich  ripening  of  the  tawny  sheaf  ; 
All    shadows    backward    flung,    our   clouds   all 
drest 


IOO  GOLDEN  TIMES. 

In    their   praise-garments ;    time   of   wage   and 

rest,  — 
Of  all  our  times  the  goldenest  and  the  best ! 

So  comes  the  golden  wedding  :  heaven  and  earth 
Make  new  espousals  ;  that  world  touches  this  ; 
A  selfsame  glory  hangs  o'er  death  and  birth  ; 
The  evening  purple  on  our  mountains  is 
A  morning  climbing  Eden's  with  a  kiss, 
Melting  to  one  full  peace  both  mysteries. 


OUR  HOME-MAKER. 

WHERE  the  mountains  slope  to  the  westward, 

And  their  purple  chalices  hold 
The  new-made  wine  of  the  sunset, 

Crimson,  and  amber,  and  gold, 

In  this  old  wide-opened  doorway, 

With  the  elm-boughs  overhead, 
The  house  all  garnished  behind  her, 

And  the  plentiful  table  spread, 

She  has  stood  to  welcome  our  coming, 

Watching  our  upward  climb, 
In  the  sweet  June  weather  that  brought  us, 

Oh,  many  and  many  a  time  ! 


IO2  OUR  HOME-MAKER. 

To-day  in  the  gentle  splendor 
Of  the  early  summer  noon, 
Perfect  in  sunshine  and  fragrance, 
Although  it  is  hardly  June, 

Again  is  her  doorway  opened, 

And  the  house  is  garnished  and  sweet; 
But  she  silently  waits  for  our  coming, 

And  we  enter  with  silent  feet. 

A  little  within  she  is  waiting, 

Not  where  she  has  met  us  before  ; 

For  over  the  pleasant  threshold 
She  is  only  to  cross  once  more. 

The  smile  on  her  face  is  quiet, 
And  a  lily  is  on  her  breast ; 

Her  hands  are  folded  together, 
And  the  word  on  her  lips  is  "rest." 


OUR  HOME-MAKER.  103 

And  yet  it  looks  like  a  welcome, 

For  her  work  is  compassed  and  done ; 

All  things  are  seemly  and  ready, 
And  her  summer  is  just  begun. 

It  is  we  who  may  not  cross  over : 

Only  with  song  and  prayer, 
A  little  way  into  the  glory 

We  may  reach,  as  we  leave  her  there. 

But  we  cannot  think  of  her  idle ; 

She  must  be  a  home-maker  still : 
God  giveth  that  work  to  the  angels 

Who  fittest  the  task  fulfill. 

And  somewhere  yet  in  the  hill-tops 
Of  the  country  that  hath  no  pain, 

She  will  watch  in  her  beautiful  doorway 
To  bid  us  a  welcome  again. 


H.  B.  S. 

JUNE  14,  1882. 

QUEEN  of  the  months  of  the  year, 
Hour  of  her  crowning  and  prime! 

Everything  royal  and  dear 
Comes  in  this  bountiful  time. 

Everything  noble  and  high, 
Everything  lowly  and  sweet : 

Tree-tops  are  grand  in  the  sky, 
Daisies  in  bloom  at  our  feet. 

Roses  aglow  in  the  sun, 

Grass  growing  rich  for  the  blade ; 


H.   B.   S.  IO5 

Summer's  sweet  marvel  begun 
New,  as  it  never  were  made. 

Sunshine,  and  blossom,  and  song; 

Glory,  and  beauty,  and  praise  : 
Blessing  and  gladness  belong 

To  souls  that  are  born  in  such  days. 

Came  she  but  these  to  inherit, 

Signs  of  her  nature's  attune, 
Joyous  and  affluent  spirit, 

Born  in  that  far-away  June  ? 

Gladdest  is  tenderest,  too, 

Joy  is  diviner  of  trouble ; 
Power  hath  a  service  to  do, 

Sight  that  is  true  seeth  double. 


106  H.   B.   S. 

"We  and  our  neighbors."     That  word 

Grew  in  the  heart  of  her  heart; 
Haunted  the  life-feast,  and  stirred 
Plea  for  a  people  apart. 

"Seest  Thou,  hearest  Thou,  not? 
It  faileth  !  "  was  all  she  said : 
Leaving  her  prayer  with  the  Thought 
That  cares  for  the  children's  bread. 

She  minded  the  marriage  board, 
The  wine  that  had  not  sufficed, 

And  one  who  looked  to  the  Lord, — 
Mary,  the  mother  of  Christ. 

"It  faileth!"  was  all  she  said. 

She  knew  that  He  knew  the  rest; 
That  his  ear  interpreted 
The  longing  of  her  request. 


H.   B.   S.  lO/ 

Unto  such  pitiful  asking 

Strange  that  the  answer  should  be, 
Swift  and  keen  with  its  tasking, 

"  What  have  I  to  do  with  thee  ? 

"My  time  yet  cometh"     "Ah,  Lord!" 

That  cry  for  a  people's  pain 
Went  up  afresh  with  a  word 

That  would  not  beseech  in  vain : 

"Behold  the  death  of  their  living, 

The  anguish  of  thy  long  -years  ! 
The  thirst  for  the  wine  of  thanksgiving, — 
The  drink  of  their  bitter  tears  ! " 

Thirsted  and  suffered  they  still : 
Strange  were  the  waiting  and  loss ; 

None  to  deliver  his  will, 

None  to  bear  forward  his  cross  ! 


108  H.  B.   S. 

"  Waiteth  it  even  for  me  ? 

Message,  and  process  divine  — 
'  Woman,  what  do  I  with  thee  ? ' 
Was  it  denial  or  sign  ? 

"Was  it  rebuke  or  a  mission, 

For  her  who  turned  in  a  breath, 
Commanding,  with  holy  prevision, 
'  Do  ye  whatever  He  saith  ! ' 

"  Yes,  —  though  ye  hear  the  sentence, 

'Go,  fill  ye  up  to  the  brim 
The  measure  of  your  repentance ! ' 
Fill  up,  and  bear  unto  Him  ! " 

Into  the  hearts  of  the  human 

Purification  of  tears : 
That  was  the  work  of  the  woman ; 

God  gave  the  wine  of  the  years! 


H.  B.   S.  IO9 

Mary,  elect  of  the  Lord! 

Yield  we  thy  praise  to  another? 
She  who  hath  wrought  for  his  word 

Is  daughter,  and  sister,  and  mother. 


LIFTED   UP. 

T.   J.    M. 

O  SPIRIT  so  gentle  and  strong, 
And  fair  with  an  honor  unpriced  ! 

So  swerveless  to  shadow  of  wrong, 
Yet  kind  with  the  kindness  of  Christ ! 

O  heart  great  with  brotherly  love! 

O  thought  swift  with  help  and  with  cheer! 
O  life  hidden  holy  above, 

Yet  lowly  and  diligent  here ! 

O  friend,  whom  no  moment  did  miss 
Of  need,  where  thy  comfort  could  be  ! 


LIFTED   UP.  Ill 

What  hand  shall  uphold  us  in  this, 
And  who  shall  console  us  for  thee  ? 

We  follow.     We  follow  and  go 

Where  Jesus  went  up  with  the  three, 

And  the  glory  of  heaven  did  show 
On  the  mountain  in  Galilee. 

And,  living,  we  see  thee  stand, 

As  Elijah  and  Moses  stood, 
At  the  living  Lord's  right  hand, 

In  the  shining  of  angelhood. 

And  we  know  that  the  hills  of  God 

Slope  down  from  their  uppermost  height 

With  the  pathways,  messenger-trod, 
Into  our  sorrow  and  night. 


112  LIFTED   UP. 

O  spirit  most  gentle  and  strong, 
Most  ready  with  service  unpriced ! 

Brave  for  us  against  our  own  wrong, 
And  kind  with  the  kindness  of  Christ! 

Great  heart,  and  pure  life,  and  swift  thought ! 

Ye  do  kindle  and  move  for  us  yet: 
The  friendship  that  earth  hath  so  wrought 

Eternity  will  not  forget! 

No  moment  thy  comfort  shall  miss, 
No  need,  where  thy  comfort  can  be ! 

.Thy  love  holdeth  steadfast  through  this,— 
Thyself  shall  console  us  for  thee! 


HENRY  W.   BELLOWS. 

THEY  miss  him  in  the  city  and  the  church, 

And  in  the  councils  of  strong,  reverend  men, 
Where  silence  listens,  and  desire  doth  search 
Vainly  for  voice  and  power  that  not  again 
May  come  among  them  as  they  came  before. 
Do  the  hills  miss  him  more? 

The  hills  that  were  his  strength,  that  were  his 

home. 

A  man  of  Sinai,  to  lead  forth  a  crowd 
And  sway  its  souls,  with  word  his  spirit  clomb 
The  solemn  peaks  for ;  uttering  aloud 

What  God,  behind  the  thunders,  whispered 

low. 
Thus  did  he  come  and  go. 


114  HENRY   W.   BELLOWS. 

But  the  heights  held  him.     In  a  hidden  peace 
He  kept  their  stillness :  their  ineffable  airs 
Stirred  in  his  nature  with  their  pure  release, 
And  gave  the  breath  to  his  uplifted  prayers. 
"  Only    to    shut    his    eyes,"    where'er    he 

trod, 
And  he  was  with  his  God. 

We  saw  him  on  our  plane  of  common  things, 

Forgetting  that  we  saw  not  all  of  him. 
Before  the  veil,  invisible  were  the  wings 
Where  dwelt  the  Presence  'twixt  the  Cheru- 
bim : 

Deep  in  the  ark,  hid  unprofaned  away, 
The  testimony  lay. 

He  who  once  went  beyond,  that  He  might  be 
Forever  nearer,  and  without  a  veil 


HENRY  W.    BELLOWS.  11$ 

Temple  Himself  in  life,  that  souls  should  see 
His  human  glory,  though   the   heavens  grow 

pale 

Before  the  unclothing  of  the  full  Divine, 
From  out  this  world  of  sign 

Taketh  his  prophets  who  have  known  of  Him ; 

Calleth  them  where  consummate  vision  fills 
The   eyes   that  shut   because    earth's  light  was 

dim ; 

Lifteth  the  feet  that  scaled  these  lesser  hills, 
And  on  the  eternal  summits  planteth  them 
Of  his  Jerusalem. 

Do  the  hills  miss  them  ?     Do  the  heights  com- 
plain 

Whence  they  ascended  ?  Rather  are  they  filled 
With  new  unfoldings  that  our  sight  constrain. 


Il6  HENRY   W.   BELLOWS. 

Our  common  things  and  thoughts,  forgotten, 

stilled, 

Roll  off  in  mists  that  had  the  real  hid, 
And  lo!  a  pyramid, 

Built  from  the  pattern  of  the  mountains,  stands, 

A  revelation  lovely  and  sublime, 
Like  the  great  pillar  on  Egyptian  sands, 
Above  the  shifting  level  of  our  time: 

Height  that  doth  index  all  the  realm  below, 
And  heart  and  border  show ! 

Searching  our  lives  by  life  that  towereth  on ; 

Testing  our  little  being  and  our  way 
With  the  pure  measures  that  were  laid  upon 
Their  larger  lines  in  some  creative  day  ; 
That,  Lord    of    Hosts !    among    thy    hosts 

might  be 
Such  witness  unto  Thee ! 


OUR  MOTHER. 

M.   D.    P. 

BROKEN  and  worn.     For  years  we  saw  her  so; 
Dropping  from   strength,  from   time  detaching 

slow ; 

And  scarcely  could  we  know 
How   earth's  dark    ebb    was    Heaven's    bright 

overflow. 

"  She  is  so  old,"  we  said.     The  cloud  and  pain 
Half  hid  her,  till  we  sought  with  loving  strain 

Her  very  self  in  vain. 
Her  very  self  was  growing  young  again ! 


Il8  OUR  MOTHER. 

She   has  come  back!    The   cloud  and  pain  are 

o'er; 
The    dear    freed    feet    but    touched  that  other 

shore 

To  turn  to  us  once  more 
The  nearer,  like  her  Lord  who  went  before. 

Our  young,  strong,  angel   mother !     From   the 

years 
Triumphant  life  its  shining  garment  clears, 

And  all  its  stain  of  tears 
And  weariness  forever  disappears. 

Old  —  broken  —  weak  ?    'T  was  but  the  shatter- 
ing might 

With   which   a    grand   soul    broke  toward  the 

light, 
Rending  its  bands  of  night 

That  it  might  stand,  full-statured,  in  God's  sight. 


OUR  MOTHER.  119 

The  calyx  burst  that  it  might  loose  the  flower ; 
We  saw  the  mist  but  by  the  sunbeam's  power ; 

The  dusk  that  seemed  to  lower 
Was  of  the  morning  —  not  the  midnight  hour. 

And  so  a  Birth,  not  Death,  we  stand  beside; 
Our  own  fast-gathering  years  come  glorified ; 

And  braver  we  abide, 

That  we  have  seen  Heaven's  great  door  flung 
awide. 


ANSWER  TO  A   FRIENDLY  VERSE. 

EACH  sweet  acknowledging  thing 

That  comes  to  me 
But  this  delight  doth  bring, — 

That  I  may  be 
Small  almoner  to  the  King. 

If  I  took  home  your  verse 

And  claimed  it  mine 
As  praise,  I  should  be  worse 

In  sight  Divine 
Than  Judas  with  the  purse. 

Truth  that  is  told  or  known, 
By  you  or  me, 


ANSWER   TO   A   FRIENDLY   VERSE.          121 

Is  the  Lord's  gold  alone  : 

His  treasury 
Distributes  but  his  own. 

Then,  though  we  live  thereby 

In  common  weal, 
Neither  may  you  nor  I 

One  penny  steal 
Selfhood  to  glorify. 

Dear  friend,  I  take  the  hand 

Of  fellowship 
You  reach  ;  I  understand 

Beyond  the  lip  : 
We  're  of  one  tongue,  one  Land ! 


A  GOOD-BYE. 

THIS  thing  we  learn  while  here  below, — 
Nothing  complete  and  finished  is: 

We  do  but  gather,  as  we  go, 
Beginnings  and  half-knowledges. 

Only  a  little  depth  we  trace 

The  secret  of  another  mind  : 
We  look  our  friendship  in  the  face 

With  eyes  short-holden,  hindered,  blind. 

And  then,  at  once,  the  day  is  done: 

Our  world  turns  round,  and  east  is  west ; 

Half  scanned  our  swift  horizons  run, 
And  life  may  never  know  the  rest. 


A  GOOD-BYE.  123 

Nay ;  the  brief  times  are  in  his  hand 
Who  portioned,  keeps,  and  can  recall. 

Plain  in  his  sight  our  fragments  stand 
A  perfect  story ;  Heaven  holds  all ! 


THE   TWO   POWERS. 
(FOR  "SWORD  AND  PEN.") 

TAKE  thy  pen,  O  prophet !     Write. 
Tell  the  world  thy  spirit-sight. 
All  thy  errand  swift  record 
Straight  from  whispers  of  the  Lord ! 
Double  edges  of  his  truth, 
Messages  of  wrath  and  ruth, 
Flash  upon  men's  eyes  in  words 
Like  the  gleam  of  naked  swords. 

God  would  save  the  nations,  when 
For  the  Sword  He  sends  the  Pen ! 

Warrior,  gird  thyself  with  might ! 
Bare  the  blade,  and  seek  the  fight ! 


THE   TWO   POWERS.  1 25 

Sin's  broad  page  is  crimson-writ, 
Crimson  now  must  cancel  it. 
Folded  is  the  prophet's  scroll, 
Silence  waits  within  his  soul ; 
For  the  warning  mercy-call, 
Burns  a  judgment  on  the  wall. 

When  the  reckoning  is  scored 
God's  Pen  is  a  flaming  Sword ! 

Write  once  more,  strong  scribe,  and  say 
How  they  faced  that  fearful  day  : 
Quit  them  righteously  and  well, 
If  they  stood  or  if  they  fell; 
Or,  if  giving  half  their  life 
In  the  hot  and  sudden  strife, 
Calm  they  bore  the  crowning  test, 
Rendering  in  slow  pain  the  rest ! 


126  THE  TWO   POWERS. 

In  such  histories  of  men, 
Measure  still  with  Sword,  O  Pen! 

Powers  of  word  and  powers  of  deed! 
One  the  anointing,  one  the  need : 
Still  foresay,  and  still  fulfill 
All  that  grand,  mysterious  Will 
In  whose  might  the  peoples  move 
To  their  franchisement  above. 
Sign  and  story  still  record 
Straight  from  purpose  of  the  Lord! 

His  own  time  He  knoweth,  when 
He  shall  lay  down  Sword  and  Pen ! 


THE   GREAT   PYRAMID. 

ACCIDENT,    OR   TESTIMONY? 

GOD  is  not  vague,  extemporaneous  ; 

He  is  not  Lord  Almighty  by  caprice: 

Though  all  be  fluent  to  immediate  touch, 

And  all  obedient  to  instant  thought 

Of  Power  and  Will  that  in  Him  are  the  Life, 

Yet  o'er  the  floods  of  possibility, 

The  rolling  waters  of  the  world  to  be, 

Moved  that  great  thought  in  pondering  of  Law ; 

And  held,  as  left  hand  in  the  grasp  of  right, 

The  waiting  act.     His  awful  Infinite  — 

Space  without    space,  and   Time  that    hath  no 

term  — 
He  put  in  measurement;  made  definite; 


128  THE   GREAT   PYRAMID. 

Sent  forth  creation  from  a  dread  reserve, 
Causing  sweet  order  to  be  slowly  born, 
Instead  of  ruin  from  unstinted  force. 

So  in  the  waters  laid  He  the  great  beams 
Of  fair  and  solid  chambers;  so  He  weighed 
The  separate  grains  of  each  considered  earth, 
And  in  his  measure  comprehended  them  ; 
Meted  the  heaven  with  an  accurate  span  ; 
By  the  pure  scale  and  balance  of  his  truth 
Portioned  out  hill  and  mountain  ;  held  the  drops 
Of  seas  and  rivers  in  his  hollowed  hand 
Before  He  let  them  fall  to  find  their  way 
In  seeming  of  their  free,  sweet  wanderings. 
Wherefore  took  He  such  counsel  in  that  day  ? 

Because  He  was  to  be  the  Lord  of  Hosts; 
Because  his  creature  was  to  live,  and  know 


THE  GREAT  PYRAMID.  I2Q 

How  absolute  and  righteous  was  his  plan ; 
Because    there  should  be  truth  'twixt  God  and 

man, 

And  right  'twixt  neighbor  and  the  neighbor  so  ; 
Because  the  perfect  way  the  child  must  see, 
That  as  the  Father  he  might  perfect  be. 
From  such  necessity,  to  such  dear  end, 
God  wove  in  dust  the  voiceless  parable, 
And  by  calm  hindrance  of  omnipotence, 
Wonder  of  number,  miracle  of  line, 
Set  in  each  work  his  secret  and  his  sign  ! 

If  in  this  temple  of  the  universe, 

This  builded  revelation  of  a  pile 

So   reared  and    stretched    that  none  may  scan 

the  whole, 
Or  lay,  as  this  to  that,  by  utmost  thought, 


I3O  THE   GREAT  PYRAMID. 

Proportion  to  proportion,  or  convey 
Impression  to  impression,  till  he  feel 
Any  faint  shadow  of  its  sense  complete,  — 
If  so,  with  eager  yet  inadequate  feet, 
We  stand  in  entrance-ways  of  awful  aisles 
That  open  through  the  eternal  distances,  — 
What  word  have  we  if  somewhere  in  its  gates, 
Or  grand  foundation,  or  on  corner  stone, 
We  find  a  graven  rule  and  diagram, 
So  clear  compared  with  each  initial  known 
That    none    may    doubt    the    unknown    in    it 
waits  ? 

Because  the  finished  pillars  rise  in  light, 
The  lines  severe  blossom  with  sculptured  grace  ; 
Because  the  arch  is  vast  and  blue  the  height, 
And  the  great  tides  of  music  sweep  the  place, 


THE  GREAT  PYRAMID.  131 

Shall  we  the  vouchsafed  verity  pass  by 
That  doth  the  whole  compel  and  underlie, — 
Dare  to  deny  before  we  understand, 
And  spurn  the  witness  of  the  Builder's  hand? 


FOR  A  CHURCH   DEDICATION. 

To  God  the  Father,  in  the  height, 
As  children  living  in  his  light, 
We  build :  O  Lord,  descend  with  grace, 
And  tabernacle  in  the  place! 

To  Christ  the  Son,  whose  love  did  make 
His  flesh  a  temple  for  our  sake, 
We  build :  Lord,  give  us  here  to  see 
The  Face  of  thy  Humanity ! 

Unto  the  Spirit,  whom  in  vain 
The  Heaven  of  heavens  would  quite  contain, 
We  build :  O  Lord,  thy  presence  pour, 
And  dwell  with  us  forevermore! 


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